City Lights
by sparkstoaflame
Summary: As if anything would ever come out of a relationship between the abused and the homeless. / kataang — au modern-era
1. one

**author's note** | obviously, i lied about posting **Paper Flowers **first, but whatever.

so the basic rundown: **City Lights** is a very short story broken up in eighteen chapters, and it takes place in the same universe as **Chasing Serendipity**, but it focuses in on _a:tla_ characters, with only a few brief mentions of korra, because..._reasons._ *cackles*

i'm also trying a new style of writing with this fanfic, as will become evident if you start reading, soo...without further ado, enjoy! :)

* * *

**City Lights**

As if anything would ever come out of a relationship between the abused and the homeless. / _kataang — au modern-era_

* * *

_cover image credit to _**acewallpaper**

* * *

**part one**  
corners

.

/**one**/

.

_(something's—a bit new)_

_(something's—)_

_(something's—)_

_(something's—different)_

.

.

.

.

_(I see darkness.)_

.

The people in this city, they're predictable, like clockwork; thin black hands ticking across a wash of golden city lights blinking faintly in the background.

* * *

When I lay against it, my back touches a faded brick wall,

dirty and caked with grime and dust,

all of which has accumulated across its rough surface

over ten thousand days.

It is my perch, my personal niche,

a forgotten corner of the universe,

lost and left behind as shoes slap against worn concrete—

their owners, nor sparing a glance left nor right,

Because oh, how unnecessary this filthy alleyway is to their own lives.

How easy it is to forget about them.

Associated with plenty of dirty happenstances,

another fuzzy image superimposed onto curling yellow paper,

another shrunken silhouette,

in the shine and glamor,

the crystallized sheen,

of a great metropolis.

And that's what makes this alley so _perfect_

for it is only a shadow,

as am I.

Still and silent; so deceptively timeless,

while the world ages quickly around it,

I only become another shadow in a cold brick wall.

_Freedom, I think, is terribly lonely—_

But I stay here, and I watch.

* * *

_(I see a lot of things.)_

.

She has dark brown hair.

.

_(Not many people see me.)_

.

—"Oh, there you are!"—

.

_(I'm nameless, I think.)_

.

—"So, I accidentally bought too much for myself this time. A foot-long, you know. I usually eat six-inches...oh gosh, sorry, I told you last time I wouldn't bore you with my sub preferences and I'm at it again—ah, well, do you want a bit of my sandwich?"—

.

_(I don't remember myself, exactly?)_

.

She smiles at me, blue eyes wide and honest over the chunk of BLT in her outstretched hands.

* * *

_(I see—)_

.

There is a man whose hair is liberally streaked with soft silver, and if I had to guess I think his age would be around his late fifties or early sixties, who drops by regularly at the little bakery that's next to my secluded niche in the wall and I see every day. He whistles the same tune past gap-toothed teeth every day—"American Pie," I think it's called, a song from some far off place in the big wide world named the United States.

("American Pie." It has a nice tune, I think.)

He goes into the pastry shop, never staying for more than five minutes at a time, and always comes out with a different kind of donut. Sometimes with a heavy cream filling, others with chocolate frosting, and yet others with sticky sweet glaze and rainbow-colored sprinkles.

He never notices me.

.

_(I see—)_

.

There is a fair young man who is a clerk at a Swarovski, and I have watched, over the course of one year, him fall deeply in love with the child of some classy restaurant owner just down the street.

I am watching the day the two of them share their first kiss in the night, underneath the hazy yellow glow of a scuffed black streetlamp that has moths fluttering around its bulb, and I am still watching when they are wrenched away from each other by the red-faced, screaming restaurant owner, their fingertips hooking desperately around each other for one last touch before they are separated, forever.

Both of them were male, you see.

.

_(I see—)_

.

Once in a while, someone will see me, and they'll wave and smile a bit. Either that, or quickly turn their heads away.

I don't mind.

I see plenty of things from my corner of the universe; I see drug addicts, I see street performers, I see hippies—I see the other homeless, like me.

I see her, too, but only after she sees me.

.

_(I see her, sometimes.)_

.

(**tbc**)

* * *

**end notes** | short, yes, but i'm telling you right now that most chapters won't be as long as this. they average around 250, 300 words. :p

as always, please read, and fav/follow...and dare i ask, review! :)


	2. those

**City Lights**

As if anything would ever come out of a relationship between the abused and the homeless. / _kataang — au modern-era_

* * *

**part one**  
corners

.

/**those**/

.

_(Silence is my destruction.)_

.

Her shoes are too small, scuffed and worn with use. They tightly pinch the tips of her toes when she meanders through the streets, blue eyes unfocused and distant as they stare into the air at nothing in particular.

Maybe it was a mistake picking up this job, cleaning. She's rubbing her hands raw scraping cloth against warm soap—she can rub off all the physical skin she wants doing this, but she can't wash off any memories that cling to her flesh like a grimy film of grunge.

But she needs the money, and so, she won't complain.

She dreads going back to the apartment, if only because of the drunken monster that undoubtedly waits for her.

It's true, she tells herself.

She never reports him to the authorities, anyway, because technically, he isn't doing anything _wrong_ and she isn't saying that she didn't _want_ it.

It's a legitimate reason, she tells herself.

Is it?

Or is it illegitimate?

Is anything she does legitimate?

Katara frowns for a moment, then shakes her head, allowing a small beam to form across her lips.

_...The Windex has gotten to me._

She dashes through the streets, black hair flying behind her in glossy streamers, the sunlight sinking deeply into her skin and warming her to her very bones, a laugh bubbling from her lips. The odd looks she receives from passing pedestrians quickly melt into soft smiles.

And if this is what it feels like to be loved—

It's worth it.

It was going to be okay.

.

_(Silence is my destruction.)_

.

(**tbc**)


	3. piece

**author's note** | korra'll be mentioned, after this chapter, probably just one more time, so bear with me here.

* * *

**City Lights**

As if anything would ever come out of a relationship between the abused and the homeless. / _kataang — au modern-era_

* * *

**part one**  
corners

.

/**piece**/

.

_(I see her, sometimes.)_

* * *

There are noises feeding into a constant thrum of white static in the air,

some brief yet loud,

others long yet but a rumble.

They are both caustic and sweet,

rough and smooth,

earthy timbres pressed against heaven's own choir.

The soundtrack against

a sunset-stained sky.

* * *

There's this girl, called Korra,

who is one of the few who actually notices me

sitting in the heavy shadows of the alleyway.

I will never forget that look on her face,

the one of bemusement,

maybe a bit of pity,

but also sheer horror,

_torn._

Because it's winter,

and I'm sitting in an alleyway,

and it's very cold.

She's wearing this jacket,

and it's a strange, silvery color that I can't quite pin down,

because it looks like a brand new nickel,

looks like platinum,

looks like the glow of the moon.

And she seems to be headed to one of the houses

(if you could call them houses)

in the poorer part of this city—

—Otter Falls Borough—

but she stops,

smiles at me,

takes off her jacket,

gives it to me.

"Thank you," I say, because what else do you say to people like her?

"No problem," she says.

* * *

She comes regularly after that.

* * *

Korra lends me her scuffed, worn, old acoustic guitar for the day.

She says that she's going out,

into the wilderness, that old playground she always goes to.

She's been going there a lot more often recently,

and I don't really know why.

But I don't press her,

because she never presses me.

So I ask her, "What time is it?"

She actually has coffee today,

probably a rare treat,

because the stuff is rather pricy in these parts.

She gives me a once-over,

appraises me,

_notices me,_and I hope that she _doesn't_ notice I can't stop looking into her eyes,

because they remind me of BLT girl—

—_(I see her, sometimes.)_—

—then Korra hands me the warm cup of pricy coffee without preamble and says, "A quarter to twelve."

Then she leaves.

The drink in my hands, still hot, sends fragrant white steam curling into the air.

Korra doesn't know my name,

but it's better that way,

because I don't know myself.

_(Call me John Doe, right?)_

* * *

Yeah, Korra's guitar is old.

But its strings still tremor with warmth and life when I pick them.

I marveled,

danced,

fingers fluttering,

wavering,

across the burnished strings,

losing myself in the city's soundtrack.

Twangs from the cool and smooth threads underneath my fingertips,

ghosting over skin,

in the language of the universe.

* * *

_(I see her, sometimes.)_

.

(**tbc**)


	4. days

**City Lights**

As if anything would ever come out of a relationship between the abused and the homeless. / _kataang — au modern-era_

* * *

**part one**  
corners

.

/**days**/

.

_(Silence is my destruction.)_

.

The temperature this afternoon is much too cold.

No, she wryly decides, it's not just too cold, it's _ridiculously_ cold. She can swear she can almost hear her breath crackling into bits of frost in the wintry air. The few pedestrians she had brushed past, the ones who were brave enough to venture out into the icy bite of the wind (or were forced to), were wrapped up in layers upon layers of heavy dark cotton, a luxury that she very much did not have.

It doesn't help that she only has one ragged dark red hoodie that wasn't even hers and a thin tank top between her frantically beating heart and frostbite.

Katara shivers and rubs her frozen fingers together, a gesture of silent discontent. For all of the money he makes as some high-end drug dealer out on the street, she'd have thought that Chan could have bought warmer clothes for the two of them. As it is, the two of them live in some dingy and low-key apartment bordering right on the edge of the Otter Falls Borough, which is widely considered to be one of the most run-down, if not the most, areas to live in in the entirety of the country.

Wandering to the side of the dirt-caked curb, she sweeps quickly by the small, bright donut shop, her head nestled securely underneath the line of her hood. The shop's insides are a brilliant and warm gold, illuminated by fluorescent lights and happiness. The shop practically regurgitates the aromatic smells of sweet, soft dough and warm coffee.

Katara stops in front of the cheerful shop.

Hesitates, and rummages around her pockets—

—only one quarter.

She's looking up, head bowed in disappointment, when she hears the voice.

It's melodic—not rough or sultry with lust, not the tone that she's too used to hearing every night—layered, like the soft cotton clouds that whisk across each other and through the gray sky of the metropolis. It's alive, turning notes into the very breath of life, turning the strains of harmony and melody and pure, untainted music into a living, breathing creature.

And in that instant, Katara can almost swear that she's listening to the physical manifestation of the distant stars that dot the inky skies; stars, crystallized into notes from heaven itself.

She sees him after she hears his voice.

There's a boy, almost invisible; sitting in the furthest crook of a dark alleyway, covered by a puffy silver jacket that glows like the light of Yue itself. His head is bowed, lips moving, nearly imperceptible in the darkness—but she sees them, and she stops, and she stares.

He doesn't look up—not that she is hoping that he will, or anything—and Katara simply stands there, drowning in complete bliss, riding on a euphoric high.

She doesn't even realize where her feet are carrying her until she is mere centimeters away from this boy who had fallen straight from some higher spirit's personal choir, until her eyes focus and she can see every smudge of grease on this boy's face, his large gray eyes, scratched knuckles.

She gets so close, that she feels that the pure voice will break her heart.

They blink at each other, blue clashing against gray—

—a quarter drops in front of the boy.

And then Katara swallows, and backs up, and meanders away from the food of life, away from paradise.

.

_(Silence is my destruction.)_

.

(**tbc**)


	5. of

**author's note** | last mention of korra, i believe. thanks for sticking with me. :)

* * *

**City Lights**

As if anything would ever come out of a relationship between the abused and the homeless. / _kataang — au modern-era_

* * *

**part one**  
corners

.

/**of**/

.

_(I see her, sometimes.)_

* * *

Korra comes by again in the evening,

looking rather nonplussed as usual,

but with the barest flicker of happiness flickering across

that closed visage of hers.

I don't remember seeing her,

hearing her,

when she had first approached me.

Because my fingers were otherwise occupied,

flicking across thin strings,

brushing over metal;

ears listening for awkward,

_wrong,_

notes.

But when I look up, she's there,

mouth agape, loose stature,

looking at me with something akin to astonishment in her eyes,

and I must have frowned,

because she blinks quickly and smiles at me and says,

"Wow. You have a nice voice."

Nods,

"Keep it."

"Wh...what?" I stammer,

not quite sure what she means

by her apparent and welcomed encouragement.

"The guitar," she replies, still smiling,

wide and clear,

an arc of brightness pressed against her tanned skin,

_"Keep it."_

Then she leaves me.

* * *

She comes by the next time the day after Korra gives me the guitar,

BLT girl,

and this is the day when I first catch her eyes,

those wonderful and ethereal blue eyes,

and I don't think I will ever forget it—

—she meets my gaze,

and out of all things to do

when one catches

a homeless boy,

a street rat,

staring at them,

she

_smiles._

And what else can I do...?

I sit up,

the worn guitar clutched in a death grip in my hands.

I glance up into pools of liquid sky

(which are strangely still fixed on me)

and I offer BLT girl

a long overdue smile back.

* * *

_(I see her, sometimes.)_

.

(**tbc**)


	6. when

**City Lights**

As if anything would ever come out of a relationship between the abused and the homeless. / _kataang — au modern-era_

* * *

**part one**  
corners

.

/**when**/

.

_(Silence is my destruction.)_

.

_"You didn't have to scream, spirits damn it!"_

The woman had been a voluptuous brunette, with long locks that lapped at her shoulders like the tide across Ember Island's beaches. Her defined jawline and cheekbones only enhanced her powerful image.

Chan had told her that he was to "network" with her, perhaps a friendly chat between dealers.

Chan is also a terrible liar: Katara tracks his every movement, the little scratches to his scrubby mustache to the twitching of the centers of his eyes.

It doesn't help knowing. It had still hurt when the brunette had walked out of the back entrance of the pub, their figures entwined together—two snakes slithering, mating, poisoning each other.

_"You didn't have to spirits-damned scream!"_

Chan had held his head in his hands, the woman gone in a huff, her night "thoroughly ruined."

_"Spirits, Katara. What am I supposed to do?"_

The words sting worse than any slap, leaving internal bruises, black and blue.

_"You're such a prude. You never want to fuck, and a man's got needs, okay? That's why it happened. It's not my fault! Why can't you just loosen up? It shouldn't even be this big of a deal. Why have you got problems with this? You did this. You were the one who made this an issue."_

She is being crushed from the inside, her legs trembling, her hands covering her face, oceans leaking from her fingers.

_"Stop crying. Stop—FUCKING—CRYING!"_

If only she knows how to stop just as well as she knows how to run away.

.

_(Silence is my destruction.)_

.

_end part one_


End file.
